


and in this harsh world

by Alemantele



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canonical Character Death, Ghosts, M/M, it's hamlet what were you expecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3425981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alemantele/pseuds/Alemantele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After that last duel and the funeral that followed it, Horatio doesn't expect to see Hamlet again. He should've learned by now that Hamlet's not good with expectation.</p><p>Hamlet's ghost visits Horatio three times, over the course of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and in this harsh world

i. “So, like, ghosts totally don’t exist, right?” the girl who’s name he’s forgotten says, giggling slightly. “Hal you’re totally wrong.”

Hal, tall broad shouldered, rich douchebag practically written all over his loafers and Ralph Lauren polo, puts an arm around the small brunette and rolls his eyes. “Hey, come on, be a little more open minded. 

“No!” the brunette cries, and turns to Horatio for the first time that night. “They don’t exist, right?” she says, and Horatio thinks she is talking to him. He forces a smile and wonders if it would be too rude to turn away now. 

Last semester, Horatio would’ve shrugged, thought about the world’s vastness and remembered thinking about the supernatural in sitting in class and learning about quantum fields. He would’ve probably shrugged, said something hideously idealistic about not dismissing possibilities, and that would’ve been the end of it. 

(He’d have told Hamlet, some time later that night, the moon coming in through the tiny window in their dorm, and they’d have debated endlessly. Hamlet would have played devil’s advocate more times than him, but by the end of it Horatio would’ve sworn up and down that there was no evidence of ghosts existing.)

But now the world feels oh so small and Horatio wants to stop smiling.

“No, no, no, babe, this guy looks smart. Ghosts totally exist. You should be a little more open minded,” Hal says then, when Horatio does not answer. He nudges Horatio in the arm. “Tell her.”

 _Yeah_ , whispers some voice at the back of his neck, and Horatio wants to shrink in on himself at the feeling, _tell her, Horatio. Ghosts aren’t real._

The smile drops. 

Horatio rubs at his neck and doesn’t think about how familiar the voice is. Doesn’t think about horrible cutting irony. Tries not to hear the laugh blowing in his ear when he leaves the bar.

  

* * *

  

ii. He’s on a train. The countryside is rushing past him in a blur, faster than he can keep track of, and Horatio closes the book he brought, finished earlier than usual. He’s headed to Zurich for a lecture at the university, but Horatio suddenly feels more tired than he’s been, like this is all pointless or something. Like his life is a train and it’s rushing by and he doesn’t care enough to stop and see his surroundings.

Times like this, Horatio will think of Elsinore and the pressure in his chest will ease, just slightly.

Horatio leans against the cold glass, closing his eyes. Times like this, Horatio will try and forget who he is--forget the physics professor who looks younger than he is and who students will wonder is married yet, has a family yet, has anybody other than himself yet.

I did, once, Horatio will not say, but he will think it, and the sun will grow a little dimmer, the sky will seem a little bit heavier, and Horatio will put away his papers for the night and sit by the fireplace with a cup of cocoa, wondering only if and only if and only if—

He shakes his head, hair plastered to his forehead from the glass, and sits upright, watching the trees blow on by.

“Mommy, mommy!” a tiny girl, waist high, beaming smile, cries from a few seats away. “Tell me a story!”

The mother looks worn down, tired bags under her eyes. Another baby is swaddled in her arms, and she sags against the seat when the girl jumps out into the corridor. “Sorry, darling, another time?” she asks, her voice a whisper.

Horatio turns his head, tries not to pry, but listens, watches, the only thing he could ever do.

“But mooooooommmy,” the girl whines, her eyes shining bright. “I want a story! You promised you would tell me stories!” She bursts into loud, ugly tears, sitting down in the middle of the compartment, and the other passengers start throwing her dirty looks. They are covert, of course, but there is derision in the way their gazes float from the crying girl to her exhausted mother.

The mother glances around, panicked. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbles to no one in particularly, and frantically tries to whisper to her daughter. 

The girl continues to cry, and Horatio thinks of her ringing I want to hear a story! and gets up from his seat.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he says to the mother, smiling in a hopefully friendly way. “Could I, perhaps, tell your daughter a story?”

The mother looks up, her eyes wide, and Horatio hopes he doesn’t come off as too creepy, or too intrusive, or too anything, but the little girl stops crying and skips forwards, almost as if intrigued. “Will you, mister? Mommy tells the best stories but I wanna hear yours too. You look cool!”

Horatio smiles, tilts his head towards the mother and is relieved to see her smiling faintly as well.

He looks down at the little girl, having hopped back into her seat, and he leans on the back of the chair, already thinking of what to tell. He sees her eyes that look so eager and thinks of a promise he made, a long time ago. Tell my story, Horatio, he said, years and years ago 

It is, he thinks, far too bloody and gruesome for a child. It is too filled with carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts, filled with accidental judgements and casual slaughters, deaths from cunning and forced causes and Horatio sometimes wonders himself what the point of it all was.

“Once upon a time,” Horatio starts, “there was a prince, and he was loved by all in the land. The prince loved his father, and knew he was to be King someday, but little did he know, tragedy would fall upon the land.”

The little girl listens, her hands pressed close to her chest, feet swinging. So Horatio will tell her about Kingdoms and adventures, and the King will die and the Prince will seek revenge but there will be pirates instead of murder and the Prince will return, triumphant, with the wind on his back, and his deceitful uncle will slink away into the shadows, never to be seen again. So Hamlet will be a Prince to her, and not a desperately confused college student, grasping at straws to find his place in the world, and there will be a happy ending.

Horatio finishes the story some time later, and the little girl is leaning her head against the back of her seat, eyes closed in contentment. “What happened to the Prince after? Did you know him?” she asks, her voice growing softer and slower in sleepiness.

“...I did,” Horatio says. “But he isn’t around anymore.”

“Why...why not?”

Horatio smiles, shaking his head slightly. “He had a kingdom to run,” he says softly.

The little girl nods, vigorously, then her head falls and soon she is sound asleep, a faint smile still on her face.

Her mother looks up, the girl’s baby sibling having quieted down as well. “Thank you,” she says softly. “That was lovely.”

Horatio dips his head, straightens from where he was leaning on the seat. “Not a problem,” he says.

When he goes back to his seat, there is someone sitting besides him, by the window. There was not anyone there, not since the ticket got cancelled and Horatio remembers feeling relieved that he would have a clear view to the window and no one to have to talk to during the ride.

Whoever it is, they have their back to Horatio.

A strange chill runs down his back. The black jacket is painfully familiar.

Horatio sits, holds out a hand to tap the stranger on the shoulder, when Hamlet[’s ghost] turns around.

 _Loved by all in the land, huh?_ he says, beaming.

Horatio drops his arm. The air feels colder, somehow, but still everything is clearer. It is as if the world has suddenly shifted into focus. “It’s true,” he finds himself saying, his mouth dry.

Hamlet shrugs. _Only if you didn’t ask any further,_ he concedes. He is still smiling so brightly, wider than Horatio remembers from those past days.

“I never did like to do that,” Horatio says, clasping his hands in his lap. He isn’t sure if his hands will ghost through Hamlet’s (strangely solid looking) body if he touched him, but he also isn’t sure if he wants to know. So he sits.

Hamlet shakes his head. _But that’s not important._ He looks straight into Horatio’s eyes, clasping onto his arm in a grip that is surprisingly strong and warm and Horatio tries not to remember what Hamlet’s hands felt like all those years ago. _You kept your promise._

“Of course,” Horatio breathes. “Why would I not?”

 _And you kept it beautifully,_ Hamlet says, his smile growing fainter, but it lights up his eyes even more now. _Thank you,_ he says.

Horatio shakes his head. Words bubble in his throat, like _try, I always try, I want to make your story right_ and _of course I did; I_ love  _you_ and  _no, I didn’t, your story is too tragic to be beautiful_. He says nothing, only feels Hamlet’s warmth seeping through his jacket.

Hamlet grow silent, his brows furrowing. _What’s the matter?_

“I’ve missed you so much,” Horatio manages to choke out.

Hamlet laughs. _I’ve missed you too,_ he says, and Horatio feels his eyes burn with tears for what feels like the first time in years.

Then, they are hugging, and Horatio doesn’t care if the entire train thinks he is crazy, and he laughs harder than he has in years.

When he sits back up, Hamlet is gone.

The little girl is sleeping. Horatio turns back to his window, picks up his book, and starts it over at the beginning.

  

* * *

  

iii. The air is colder. Winter settles on Horatio’s shoulders like a shroud, making him tired to his bone. His house echoes like empty mountains when he shifts, the creaking of the couch sounding louder than it should, though he feels less alone than he has for a while. The fire has long since simmered into coals.

Footsteps, on the stairs.

Horatio turns his tired head to the doorway, and sees the edges of familiar dark shoes peeking through.

 _Are you ready?_ a voice echoes in the room.

“I’ve been ready since you were,” Horatio replies, wheezing laughter gathering in his chest. “You didn’t let me follow you.”

 _You can come with me now,_ Hamlet says, smiling face coming into full view. Hamlet smiles more now, Horatio suddenly thinks. More than he did in life.

Horatio stands, and his arms feel light and he is wearing his grad sweater and everything is warm and the world shifts back into bright colours. Hamlet is holding his hand, fingers feeling so solid, and Horatio steps forwards into his arms. 

 _Let’s go then, together,_ Horatio says, and they step out of the house.

The fireplace is still dead, inside. The couch has stopped creaking. Horatio holds Hamlet tight and Hamlet chatters about stories and things to know, and he doesn’t know what happens next but it must be something good if Hamlet is this happen. The story must have been told, and he did it the best he could. He thinks: it had to have meant something, in the end.

The rest is silence.

 


End file.
